Deathstalker (40 page)

“You’re looking very yourself, Valentine. I must say, I’m always surprised to see you actually up and about these days. Of course, if you were taking half the things you’re supposed to be taking, I’d expect you to be wheeled in on a stretcher with a drip in your arm and tubes up your nose.”

“I try to maintain a careful balance between my inner and outer worlds,” said Valentine easily, “I see my condition as a continuing work of art, with drugs the colors of my palette. And every work of art must be seen by an audience to be truly appreciated. Not that most people understand or appreciate the effort and hard work involved in an ongoing performance.”

“I do understand,” said Finlay. “No one appreciates the sheer effort involved in being at the cutting edge of fashion. But you seem to be thriving on the pressure, Valentine. Perhaps you could give me the name of your chemist.”

Valentine studied him silently for a moment, his face entirely expressionless, and Finlay wondered what he’d said. Something had thrown the Wolfe heir off balance. Finlay decided to change the subject, whatever it was, rather than have it pursue some end he wasn’t sure he wanted to reach.

“I understand your wedding is scheduled to take place soon, Valentine. Any help I can offer, having been through the ghastly business myself?”

“Why thank you, Finlay, but I think I have everything under control. The flowers have been ordered, the bridesmaids chosen, and I have designed a rather special fruit punch for the occasion that should open a few eyes. I myself shall be wearing white, with a veil, and perhaps just a dash of belladonna for scent. I’ve taken care to inform my intended of this, so that our outfits won’t clash.”

“I’m sure she was very appreciative of that,” said Finlay dryly.

“The last I’d heard,” said Valentine, “she was offering quite a handsome reward for anyone willing to assassinate me, and if that doesn’t work out, I understand she has professed a complete willingness and determination to do the job herself with whatever weapons happen to be at hand on the wedding day. She’s currently trying to stir up a vendetta between her Family and mine, but since her parents helped
arrange the match in the first place, due to the rather large dowry that comes with me, she’s not getting very far.”

“She sounds very … resolute.”

“Oh, yes. I do so admire a woman with spirit.”

“You must introduce me to her, Valentine. Someday.”

“No sooner said than done. Here comes the lady now. Doesn’t she look splendid?”

Finlay looked round sharply. A tall gangling woman in her late twenties was advancing on them, wearing a bright scarlet gown with gold and silver trimmings to show off her perfect pale skin and naturally red hair. Finlay had to wonder if perhaps the fashion for fluorescent skin and metallicized hair was over. Things changed so fast nowadays. The young lady slowed to a halt before him and Valentine, quivering with suppressed emotion, her eyebrows sunk in a truly ferocious scowl. Her mouth was an angry straight line that spoke of barely controlled rage. Finlay found his hand had dropped automatically to the sword on his hip. His instincts knew a genuine threat when they saw one. He bowed politely, and she shot him a look of undisguised venom. Finlay felt a sudden urge to check how far he was from the nearest exit. She had the look of someone who threw things. Heavy things. Valentine seemed entirely unperturbed and smiled courteously.

“Finlay Campbell, may I present Beatrice Cristiana, soon to be my bride.”

“Eat shit and die, clown,” said Beatrice. “And you can put that hand away because I have absolutely no intention of shaking it. I’d rather French kiss a leper than touch any part of you. With all the drugs boiling through what’s left of your system, even your sweat’s probably addictive. I received your latest communication; I think the veil is an excellent idea. May I also suggest a muzzle and a chastity belt, because you’re not getting anywhere near me. I personally will be wearing a decontamination suit and carrying an electric cattle prod instead of a bouquet.”

“I really must introduce you to my wife,” said Finlay.

“Isn’t she wonderful?” said Valentine happily. “I do like a woman with spunk. We were made for each other, Beatrice. Just think what our children will be like.”

“You have a better chance of winning the Church’s annual Sobriety and Good Citizenship award than you have of fathering a child on me, Valentine. I do not believe in laboratory
fertilizations, and if you ever bring your disgusting parts anywhere near me, I will cram them into a blender. This is a political marriage only, Valentine. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go and find something really fragile and expensive that I can throw at a wall.” She shot a brief glance at Finlay. “Do you have any idea what you look like? And I’d wipe that expression off your face, Finlay Campbell, if I were you, or the wind might change and you’ll be stuck that way.”

And she stomped off, disappearing back into the crowd, which kept trying to get out of her way, but just weren’t fast enough on their feet. Finlay realized he was holding his breath and let it out in a long sigh. He looked at Valentine, entirely lost for words, but the Wolfe heir seemed unperturbed. He flicked an invisible fleck of dust from his cuff and smiled at Finlay.

“She’ll come to appreciate my little ways. Eventually.”

Not too far away, Evangeline Shreck, tall, slender and positively waiflike in an off-the-shoulder gown, watched her beloved Finlay talking with the notorious Valentine Wolfe and felt an almost overpowering urge to rush over and rescue him. Or at least protect him. Valentine looked to her like nothing more than a corpse in a carnival mask, a Harlequin in heat, all that was sick and corrupt in current society. But she couldn’t even go near Finlay without good cause. Even allowing for the imminent marriage that was to link the Campbells with the Shrecks, there was still much bad feeling between the two Houses. It was a miracle no one had thrown down a formal challenge yet. It would look odd at best, and suspicious at worst, if she were to just walk up to Finlay and start chatting with him. Officially, they’d only ever met in passing on occasions like this. People would raise their eyebrows and make comments. They might even ask questions. Evangeline forced herself to look away, and there was her father, standing beside her. She composed herself quickly and hoped her small involuntary start would be taken for surprise rather than guilt.

Lord Gregor Shreck smiled at her fondly and patted her on the arm with his chubby hand. The Shreck was a short, round butterball of a man, all bulging flesh and deepset eyes, with a constant, quietly unnerving smile. It amused him to indulge himself, and he cared nothing for fashion, which in turn cared nothing for him. He was not a sociable man and
as a rule avoided all gatherings he wasn’t absolutely obliged to attend. He had never been popular or courted, despite his high station and prestigious connections, and he didn’t give a damn. He had other, private concerns.

“Can I get you a drink, my dear?” he said kindly. “Something to eat, perhaps? You know how it worries me when you don’t eat.”

“I’m sure, Father, thank you. I don’t want anything.”

The Shreck shook his head unhappily. “You must keep your strength up, my dear, or you’ll waste away to skin and bone. You want to look nice for your papa, don’t you?”

The hand on her arm closed warningly tight, and she made herself smile and nod. It wasn’t wise to make him angry. For all his surface jollity, the Shreck had a foul temper, and nasty, inventive malice. So she let him fuss over her and tried to remain as remote as she could without antagonizing him. It was a tightrope she’d gotten used to walking, but it never got any easier. The Shreck looked around at the noisily chattering crowd and scowled.

“Look at them: happy as the day is long, and not a brain between them. Eating my food and drinking my wine, and my poor niece is still a brainburned savage, a maid to the Iron Bitch. They’re happy enough to stuff their faces at my expense, but not one of them would agree to support me in trying to get my niece back, no matter how I pleaded. They don’t know how special to me she was, just like you, Evangeline. But I’ll get her back somehow, and have my revenge on those who refused me.”

And as quickly as that, the clouds left his pudgy face, and he let go of her arm. It throbbed dully, aching from the fierce grip, but she didn’t dare rub at it. It wasn’t wise to distract him when he was in one of his good moods.

“Still,” he said, beaming widely, “I expect great things of this wedding. Dear Letitia makes a lovely bride, and Robert Campbell is supposed to be a fine, upstanding young man. I’ve never had much time for the Campbells, any of them, but it must be said they have good connections with interesting and important people. And with our two Houses united by this marriage, those connections should drop right into my lap. In return, all we have to do is watch their backs, and protect them from unexpected attacks, while they jockey for position over the mass-production contracts for the new stardrive. Some of whose revenues will undoubtedly end up
flowing in my direction. Things are looking up, Evangeline. Soon I’ll be able to give you all the splendid presents I always wanted to. You’ve been very patient with me, listening to all my promises and never complaining, but once our ship comes in, you shall want for nothing, my dear, nothing at all. And all I ask in return is that you love me. Is that so much to ask?”

“No, Father.”

“Is it?”

“No, Father,” said Evangeline steadily. “You know I honor you as my father and show you all duty. My heart belongs to you.”

Gregor Shreck smiled at her fondly. “You look more like your dear mother every day.”

Evangeline was still trying to come up with a safe and neutral answer to that one when they were joined by James Kassar, the Vicar of the Church of Christ the Warrior. Tall and muscular and positively radiating physical superiority, the vicar looked very smart in his jet-black military surplice, and didn’t he know it. The Empress had given the Church her official support when she ascended to the Iron Throne, and the Church in return supported her with all its vast political power. It had followers throughout the Empire and was now the nearest thing the Empire had to an official Church. It named her Warden of the Stations of the Cross, Soldier of All Souls, and Defender of the Faith, and put its military training schools at her disposal. In practice, this meant the Church of Christ the Warrior had supplanted all other religions, in public at least, and its influence reached everywhere. The Empress excused the Church all taxes, allowed it to tithe its people as it wished, and used its Jesuit elite commandos to stamp out traitors in her name. So no one argued with the Church much. Not in public.

James Kassar was a rising name in the Church. He distinguished himself as a marine for several years, stamping out the Empire’s enemies with unyielding determination, whatever the cost. He rose rapidly to major, and then heard the call and transfered to the Church, where he turned his zeal to locating and persecuting all those who opposed the one true Church. And if in his enthusiasm he sometimes strayed outside the law, or wiped out a few innocent bystanders along with the true targets, well, you can’t make omelettes, and all that. He was a rising star, so no one said anything.
Or at least, no one who mattered. It was a great honor for the Campbells and the Shrecks that he had agreed to officiate at this wedding, and he made sure everyone knew it. Lord Gregor bowed courteously to him, and Evangeline bobbed a curtsey.

“Good of you to honor us with your presence, Your Grace,” said Gregor smoothly. I trust all is to your satisfaction?”

“Then you trust wrong,” said the Vicar sharply. “Never seen so many degenerates and parasites in one room before. A spell in the Services would put some backbone into them. Doubt half of them have seen the inside of a Church since they were christened. Or could recite the catechism of the Warrior, if pressed. But as long as the aristocracy still cuddles up to the Empress, long may she reign, they can afford to cock a snook at the Church. But that won’t last forever.”

“Quite,” said the Shreck. “May I offer you a glass of something?”

“Never touch the stuff. The body is a temple and not to be defiled with noxious substances. I assume all the details for this wedding have been thoroughly checked out, Shreck? I have other engagements following this, and if I have to change my schedule, someone’s going to suffer for it and it isn’t going to be me.”

And that was when the wild-eyed zealot appeared with a crack of thunder in the middle of the ballroom as though from nowhere. He wore only a ragged loincloth, and his bare skin was criss-crossed with old and recent scars. He wore a crown of thorns upon his brow, and blood ran down his face in sudden little rushes as his features moved. He had a starved aesthetic look, and his eyes gleamed with the fire of the true fanatic and visionary. The stunned crowd started to react to his appearance, and then fell silent again as flames leapt up from nowhere, licking around the zealot without consuming him. He glared about him, and people shrank back, but when he spoke his voice was surprisingly calm and even.

“I am here to protest against the continuing slavery of espers and clones! I protest against the desecration of the one true Church of Christ the Redeemer! Christ was a man of peace and love, but if he were here now to see what you do in his name, he would turn his face away from us in despair. I do not fear your guards or interrogators; I have dedicated
my life to the Lord, and I give it up now as a sign to you that espers and clones have a strength and faith of their own and will not be denied!” He paused then, looked around him, and smiled slightly. “See you all in hell.”

His body burst into flames, bright and searingly hot. Those nearest him fell back from the terrible heat, but in the heart of the flames the zealot’s smile never wavered, even as the fire consumed him. It was all over in a moment, and the flames and the heat died down to nothing. All that remained was a greasy stain on the floor, and a few ashes floating on the air, and a single discarded hand that had somehow fallen outside the devouring flames. It lay on the ballroom floor like a single pale flower, fingers outstretched as though in one last appeal for reason.